


Interstitial Sunshine

by renquise



Category: Kamen Rider W (Double)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 08:44:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1772902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shotaro doesn't know if it's the aftermath of actually being an old man for a couple of days, or if it's just his body catching up on the sleep he hasn't really been getting, what with the whole terror thing. Either way, he's been tired in the afternoons lately, especially when the sunlight is really warm through the window and he's working on a lost pet report. </p><p>(Set between episodes 46 and 47.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interstitial Sunshine

Shotaro doesn't know if it's the aftermath of actually being an old man for a couple of days, or if it's just his body catching up on the sleep he hasn't really been getting, what with the whole terror thing. Either way, he's been tired in the afternoons lately, especially when the sunlight is really warm through the window and he's working on a lost pet report. 

So if he kicks off his shoes and tucks himself into the nook, it's not being an old man who needs naps in the afternoon. He's _above_ the covers, so this is just a power nap and he definitely isn't going to wake up three hours later with crusty eyes and no idea what time it is. Probably.

He's already drifting off when the mattress dips behind him and Philip crawls into bed behind him, curls around his back.

“Did you take your shoes off, at least?” Shotaro grouses.

“Mm,” Philip says, the point of his nose mushed against Shotaro's back.

His hand alights on Shotaro's waist, and through his shirt, Shotaro can feel the points of Philip's fingers against his side. Skin to skin—or nearly—he can get the vague impression of Philip's senses spreading from the right side of his body, as usual: a tension in the small of his back, the tug of clips in his hair, a gentle thrumming in his chest, the weird feeling of warm pressure along his front matched to the warm line of Philip at his back. It's the most he can get without the driver on; not the crystalline sharpness of Philip clear in his mind, but something softer and more imprecise. 

He slits his eyes open when Philip's hand lifts off with a jerk, an electric fuzziness on the edges of Philip's fingers. There's a second where he sees a hint of green light—probably Philip shooing one of his new gadgets away, because it's gone when he tips his head back, most likely waiting underneath the bed to attack his toes when he gets up. Philip's arm tucks itself against his back again, a warm, solid weight against his spine.

“Scoot over, scoot over, come on,” he hears, and promptly gets Philip's elbow in his stomach.

“Akikoooo,” he gasps out with the last of his dying breath, having been gruesomely slain by Philip's razor elbows.

“There would totally be enough room for three if you weren't taking up all the space, you big whiner,” Akiko says, hooking her chin over Philip's shoulder.

“It's a bed! For one person! Oh my god, this is three times the recommended capacity,” He twists around in the sliver of space between the wall and Philip, who looks innocently at him. Shotaro reaches over to whap Akiko's shoulder as she attaches herself barnacle-like to Philip's back. 

“I'm exercising my perogative as landlady,” Akiko says, with the air of someone delivering a devastatingly well-reasoned argument as to why Shotaro was suddenly being besieged in his bed—or at least was his bed, last he heard about it. 

“Since when can a landlady—oh, never mind, just tell me Terui isn't going to come and join in.” 

“We could call him,” Philip puts in. “Though this configuration isn't optimal for four people. Shotaro, if you curl up at the bottom of the bed, we could easily fit another.” Philip's hands come up to describe the different tetris-like arrangements that could be used to fit four people into a single bed, most of which seem to involve Shotaro being squished up against the wall. “Five people should be doable, though uncomfortable, given that the area of this bed is approximately ninety-seven by one-ninety-five centimetres, and the average area taken up by a person lying on their side is—oh, though that assumes that everyone is lying down. You could fit several more people on a bed if they were standing up. Or if you were to layer.”

“But that's a moot point, since I'm not snuggling with Terui,” Shotaro says, because no. 

“Your loss,” Akiko says cheerfully.

“Well,” Philip considers, “One can't rule out extenuating circumstances, such as the necessity of preserving body heat in situations where hypothermia could ensue--”

“ _Never, ever_ snuggling with Terui,” Shotaro says, louder.

“Oh, well, you should have said so,” Philip says, because he's a brat. Shotaro punches his shoulder.

The cat, of course, chooses that moment to come and meow at them until Akiko groans and scoops him up to deposit him on Philip's face. Which means that Shotaro is going to wake up with cat hair all over his shirt and needley little claws in his chest if they're unfortunate enough to sleep through Dinner Time. 

Mikk is the oldest, grumpiest cat that Shotaro has had the dubious joy of luring down from a tree, but at least that means that Akiko can't quite make him into a cute agency mascot, thank god, though not for any lack of trying. He's taken to winding around Philip's feet in the lab and even occasionally consents to settling on Shotaro's papers on his desk (preferably the ones he's working on) and licking the coffee remains out of his cup. Shotaro kind of likes him.

Philip settles Mikk at the end of the bed, and then scoots down and tucks his head into Shotaro's chest. Shotaro can feel his hot, humid breath in the hollow of his throat. It's slow, mechanical, like someone once told him how to breathe and left him to it, or like he's only ever read about the general necessity of oxygen. 

“That tickles,” he says half-heartedly. He slings his arm over Philip's waist, poking at Akiko's stomach for the requisite offended squeak and retaliatory kick, which somehow avoids Philip but targets his shins unerringly.

“Does it?” Philip says. “The sensation of tickling apparently requires an element of surprise, which could be slightly negated by our connection, however faint--” he shifts under Shotaro's arm, as if to wander into the library after the exact conditions required for tickling, and probably its exact role in human physiology.

Akiko mushes her hand over Philip's face. “No. No glowing. Naptime for everyone.”

Philip subsides and relaxes against Shotaro's side, wriggles close, like he could slip into Shotaro's skin, fit in the spaces between his atoms. Which is good for the immediate prospect of a nap, but makes something uneasy settle in Shotaro's gut. 

In the time he's lived in the same space as Philip, Philip has never been one to demand physical contact, not in any kind of deliberate way—he's never been shy of touch, but he's always operated on an erratic orbit that sometimes brought him in close, bumping up against Shotaro's side, curious fingers on his ribs, at his elbow, and sometimes swung him further away, content to keep his own space as he worked on whatever subject caught him this time. It was more pronounced back in the day, where Shotaro could have gone days without seeing him if the office had been any bigger, only to have a minor heart attack when Philip would suddenly be hanging uncomfortably close over his shoulder. (He'd asked Philip to wear shoes in the office after that, so that he could at least hear him coming.)

Akiko glances over Philip's shoulder at Shotaro, raising her eyebrows. He shrugs a shoulder back at her. Akiko pouts her lips, thoughtful, her eyebrows scrunching together.

“Stop making eyebrows at each other,” Philip says without lifting his head. “It's really loud.”

Akiko wiggles her eyebrows in an ever more alarming fashion. Philip smiles against Shotaro's chest and reaches back to press his hand against her face, which is always dangerous. Sure enough, he feels the echo of something wet on his right palm and makes a strangled noise, because Akiko is never above licking people's hands to get them off her face. 

Philip, naturally, wipes his hand on Shotaro's shirt, because that is how his life works. He is somehow charitable enough not to push them both out of bed.

“ _Okay._ Okay. Naptime. For real, this time,” he says firmly.

He's surprised that they both actually listen, settling in and somehow managing to accommodate everyone's limbs. 

Akiko doesn't bother to close the curtain behind her, and the sun is still golden through the window, its imprint visible through his eyelids when he closes his eyes. He remembers the boss at the cabin, weirdly casual with his sleeves rolled and a fishing cane hanging loose in his hand, saying that the sun is only ever made of gold before twilight. Shotaro nodded sagely and tried to look like he understood what the heck he meant, because it sounded really cool, but now he thinks that it must be something like this: the dust in the still air set ablaze, the cat curled at their feet rumbling softly, and the bed full and warm.

Here and now, he sleeps easy.


End file.
